more (time)

 

Today is (would have been? I never know how to phrase that..) my mom's birthday. And I'm giving myself permission to be sad, or nostalgic, or whatever it is that I need to feel. Do me a favor, if you're reading this, do something good for yourself today? Anything. Just something you really enjoy.

Why

 

.

 

birthday wishes

When you somehow manage to write things that you aren't really ready to say...

I cried so hard writing this that it's a wonder I didn't short out my tablet. That's like, cathartic, or something, right? I don't know, it just made my head stuff up and my face hurt.  But, I'm pretending really hard, I am, that I still somehow, somewhere have the capacity for hope.  And that maybe someday it'll be something other than just a trigger. So, somebody remind me to update this next year, okay?

•block•

 

The writer is blocked. The writer decides to write about being blocked. The writer's brain does not enjoy having it's hand forced and retaliates. Where do we go from here?

(Honest to gods, I'm fine.  I'm just having a strange week.  Can I blame the continuing proximity to xmas?  I'm going to, regardless of how you answer, FYI.)

lies in the headspace

 I don't recommend reading this.  I'm not being facetious.  It's under two slides of trigger warnings for a reason.  I don't really think this should exist, and the likelihood that I'm going to delete it is pretty damn good.

Update: Well. When I wrote this piece, I initially psyched myself to post, and ran away. I fully expected that I'd come back in a few hours and indeed delete out of pure angst and self-consciousness. I did not expect to have it resonate with so many people. And I most definitely did not expect for it to facilitate a few very real and much needed conversations. Thank you, every single one of you that even read this piece. It means more than I can say ❤ And no, I am not deleting. 

giving in to compulsion

 

I spent a lot of the day yesterday thinking that I probably ought to just stop posting, stop writing, just stop, until at least after the holidays. This isolated existence and the chaos in my brain don't mesh well with how December makes me feel.  ....I don't know how to end this comment, caption, thing, because I'm incredibly conflicted and writing this piece definitely did not help. Good idea, bad idea, no ideas, idk.

The answer to the question is no.

 

(Un)comfortably numb

 

First of all, at this point, my entire page is probably a trigger warning.  But.  In case you hadn't noticed that... I write a lot about mental illness, mine, specifically. My current diagnosis is dysthymia (a lovely word, meaning I am not crazy when say that I don't ever remember not being depressed), with a heaping side of generalized anxiety, and a smattering of ptsd. To say that I am not enjoying myself, is a pretty severe understatement. So anyway, y'know, beware? Herein lie monsters? Run away while you can?

I wanna say "inspired by", but I think maybe "confronted into being" would be a tad more accurate. In any case, this was written because I both very much did and absolutely did not want to write for the prompt "comfortably numb" from @antipoetic.revolution & @marierosepoetry

things i didn't intend to write today

 just got the news/that my uncle died last night/and i don't know how to feel/i want to feel shocked/because the/circumstances/are/weird/i want to feel sad/but the relationship was/largely/nonexistent/i want to worry about my aunt/my only aunt left/on my mother's side/but we don't see/eye to eye to eye to eye/and i don't know/if i care/because i'm supposed to/because i remember her from/before/religion and trumpism/ate her brain like a starving zombie/i don't know/if i care/because the blood in my veins/and the roots of my tree/and the echoes of my maternal line/says that to be a good granddaughter/a good daughter/a good niece/a good woman/a good person/that i SHOULD care/but i have lived my life with the knowledge/that 'should'/is/a curse word/and i don't know i don't know i don't know/how i'm supposed to FEEL/because the depression makes me numb/and the anxiety says/that it/doesn't/and/DOES/matter/and i don't know which voice/to/LISTEN/to

–and i don't think this is a poem, but i don't know wtf it *is*

well, if you really wanna know...

I kinda feel like this needed a content warning, but I can't exactly figure out for what, so you get a cover photo of a foggy field behind one of my favorite cemeteries instead.  You're welcome?  

Anyway.  

At some point this year, a switch flipped in my brain, and I sort of lost the ability to answer the question "How are you really feeling?" with any degree of subterfuge.  Granted, the answer is different day by day (sometimes minute by minute).

•non-lucid dream•

 •non-lucid dream•

i need to stop dreaming about you
i don't know if this is a poem or a spell
but i'm setting my intentions regardless
i'll throw some herbs and stones at it
covering my bases, all for good measure?
i need a solution, a resolution,
i need to be f i n i s h e d 
i keep cauterizing these broken connections
but they just won't stop bleeding
and the constant irritation of anticipation,
this ever-present sense of waiting
it's more tension than i can house
a little more stress to top up the tank
and whoops, here we are, overflowing again
can i set fire to this spreading puddle?
the smell is wrong, but it's pink like gasoline
is that enough? it ought to be enough
i need to stop dreaming about you
and i'm telling you, i'm telling the Universe
that this, here, is my breaking point
i can't afford to cover your rent on my emotions
the fees are too much, and it's way past time
for you, to get the fuck out of my head

I think I make my therapist nervous...

 ...and that isn't helping with my anxiety.

•take heart•

•i hate the word together•

trigger warning - secondary causes

All of my writing is personal, but this...is something else.  More abruptly honestly naked than I'm used to feeling.  I don't know if I can call it inspired, but more triggered by, the prompt "Write about the memory of hunger" from iamkyrobinson & tristamateer (intentionally not tagged, because who would want to be tagged in this?) I'm gonna be really really honest here.  I've mentioned before, I made a deal with myself when I started my writing here again to Just Post The Thing.  But this is...a lot. And I'm going to try, I am trying, but I really don't know if I can stomach leaving this up, leaving it out here.

wait for it

...

somewhere, anywhere

echoes of emotion
like gentle waves
on sun dappled shores
irritate as sand does
in unwanted crevices
a wafting scent of sadness
soft songs of longing
and a building need
 to
  just
  g o

here

I wanna go home
but I don't know
where that is
because nothin
feels like home
anymore
I hate everywhere
that you aren't

.contrary.